


Lifelike

by CommonNonsense



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Artist AU, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock paints a man he's never met, but he can't get the details right nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifelike

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Reapersun's rather lovely art: http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/34752531325/ineffableboyfriends-trick-or-treat

"No, no, _no_!”

Every time he tried, every time he put brush to canvas, it came out wrong. The eyes were the wrong blue, the hair the wrong blond, wrong, wrong, wrong.

Sherlock dropped his paint palette on the table, disrupting a mess of brushes and paper towels, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. His dark curls were streaked with shades of pink and peach acrylics, matching the splatters on his shirt and the smears on his hands and arms. Never before had the image in his head been so impossible to transfer to the canvas. He had wasted half a dozen canvases and a small fortune in paints trying to bring this nameless man to reality.

Sherlock had no idea where this figment of his imagination came from. Perhaps he had seen someone on the street or in the papers and then never seen him again, but the likeness remained. 

The nameless man was a soldier, Sherlock had decided. Kind but strong-willed, loyal as a hound, strong and stubborn. He knew how to kill but his hands were for healing, and a starburst scar on his shoulder told how that all came to an end. His visage was gentle and unassuming, and the world would hardly know everything that he was capable of doing. 

Sherlock got up and smoked a cigarette while pacing, working out the frustration until he could sit back down with a clean canvas. Exhaustion tugged at his body and his muscles ached from hours upon hours of tireless work, but he could not rest until he was satisfied. 

Finally, he reclaimed his seat, threw the canvas into the growing pile beside him, placed a clean one, and took up his brushes. 

As he began to paint, he felt a new wind come over him. Slowly, the preliminary swathes of color began to take shape, and as more and more of the body began to form, he drew his brushstrokes with a new fervor.

Blond hair, bleached by harsh desert sunlight. Blue eyes, for which the ocean and sky were pitiful metaphors. Faintly tanned skin, which he imagined would be lightly callused, stretched over curves suggesting hidden muscles, and a circular, jagged scar in the shoulder marring the smooth surface. 

Hours went by and slowly, stroke by stroke, the blond-haired man came to life on the canvas. When Sherlock finally sat back, ignoring the pained complaints of his spine, he marveled at his creation. 

And it stared back. 

Sherlock blinked and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept in at least two days. But there was a definite movement in the canvas, now—the figure was moving.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, only able to watch, awkwardly holding his brush in mid-air as the painted man moved and shifted. He lifted a hand slowly and reached forward, as though testing his boundaries, and as his fingers breached the dimensions of the canvas, he smiled.

"How?" Sherlock asked softly. 

The man shrugged at him. “No idea,” he replied. His voice was a gentle tenor, just as Sherlock had imagined. 

He leaned forward, pulling his head and shoulders from the canvas’s surface and into Sherlock’s personal space, balancing his weight on the edge of the canvas. “Do I have a name?” he asked, his expression questioning. 

Sherlock’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips, raking his gaze over the new three-dimensional form of his creation. The man’s skin was still patched with color, his painted highlights and shadows not quite smoothed.

"John," he answered after several long seconds, realizing he never had given his nameless figment a proper name. 

"John," the blond man repeated, dragging the syllable as though tasting the letters on his tongue. "That’s as good a name as any, I suppose." He reached forward and gripped Sherlock’s shoulder. His hold was firm and warm as he gently pulled Sherlock forward in his seat. 

"What are you—"

"You know better than I do," John said. His face was close, his eyes startlingly blue with the proximity. Sherlock had outdone himself mixing that color. "You’re the one who brought me to life."

His breath was warm as it wafted over Sherlock’s face, his hand sliding up and cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock hurriedly sought purchase at the edge of the canvas and the table as he was pulled in. 

Of course, he thought to himself. He knew everything. He knew John was a soldier and a doctor; he liked tea and handguns and feeling needed and, though he never made the decision consciously, dark-haired reclusive painters. 


End file.
